


Forgiveness is a Sin

by waterlit



Series: our communal dead [1]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Drama, Emotional Baggage, Family, Loneliness, Noahs - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Slight Lulu Bell/Tyki, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterlit/pseuds/waterlit
Summary: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.





	

Her bed is cold tonight.

She wants some human warmth, some hand to hold and some bright eye directed at her, and someone to say, _tonight, we are human, so let us rejoice._

Lulu Bell stokes the fire in her hearth, and brushes her silk-smooth hair. Her refection scares her sometimes; there is a glint in her own eyes that she doesn't quite want to see on nights like this. She can feel the turn of the tide and the bellows of lost souls, and the agony that emanates from the people. On the whole, she doesn't quite care, but when the moon quails and the wind goes a-wailing, her heart throbs inside and she swallows the bile that rises in her empty throat.

And then she sits by the fire, and thinks of him—who left, who shattered her heart and buried it forever more in the fiery crevices of hell, who broke her, who wrung her heart inside out, and left her to die like a fish out of water.

* * *

There was once an enchantress, with hair like ripe corn, with eyes that were molten gold, who wandered into a forest that lay under the spell of darkness, and there she raised a tower of stone and marble and sat beside her fair fountains to await true love's kiss.

The exile was long, and her heart grew cold, and the birds fled from the silent halls, back into the leafy boughs.

The harp lay unstrung, the leaves were withered (stained crimson) with the drought of pain and impatience, and above all, she never quite believed in love again.

* * *

Lulu Bell thinks that a heart-break hurts only once—in that window period between "I don't love you" and "I miss you, but I have to go on living". Time doesn't quite heal all wounds, but she's learnt to distill her unhappiness into the sweet pursuit of revenge.

Mankind has failed her, and she will rise and aid her Master in all things despicable until the end of days. She is no fey fairy, she is no laughing sprite; she is a woman scorned and will rightfully claim her throne among the judges who will judge man unworthy of life. She will be an angel of death and destruction raining fire and brimstone on the world.

For she has sworn never to forgive the hurts inflicted on her.

* * *

The enchantress's secret garden was empty and barren for many a spring, and she grew old and cold with every passing year. There were now streaks of white in her rippling hair, and the wind blew wilder every passing autumn. The snow demons were now wrestling with her; they wanted their forest back.

Then he came, _clippety clop_ , armour bright and smile even brighter. He was seeking shelter, and she gave it to him, and through the long winter days their hearts entwined. Her hair regained its healthy glow, and he picked up her harp and sang songs in praise of her loveliness.

In those days, they laughed a great deal under the perpetual twilight. They were glad and merry, and so she was unprepared for the eventual heartbreak.

* * *

He leaves her high and dry, for a woman with a bigger dowry and a fairer face.

When she reads the letter, his name hastily scrawled at the end, she can scarcely believe the words. They sting so; she sits huddled in a heap of dress for what seems like an eternity. Time stands still for her.

Heart rent asunder, she slips into an orgy of despair. There are times when she loses herself amid the swirling waves; everything is grey, everything is roaring and cursing and spitting against her grief-hardened heart.

When it is all over she cannot quite remember how things positioned themselves. The last thing she remembers is the rage, the clawing of old furniture, and the frenzy of frustration that gripped her for days on end. There was a hearth, a fire that grew bigger with chimerical flames licking the roof, and a silent winter studded with the cruel tears of ashes.

The next thing she remembers is a warm embrace, a pair of strong arms that picks her up, and a smiling mask high above her head.

"I'm the Earl of Millennium." Her saviour grins at her.

She grins back. She feels warm; there is a little ache at the back of her throat, a torrent of tears twisting around her rib cage, but she wants to smile, to laugh, to say _thank you for delivering me from hell_.

* * *

She grew old, she grew cold.

Autumn tread on its silent way, and winter swept uncalled for into the little villa enshrouded in the encircling forest.

The birds ceased to sing, and the boughs of the tall trees were empty, and the leaves were withered. Sitting on a carved bench beneath a sprawling oak, the prince looked up and studied the battle-grey skies. It was time, he thought, to leave the ageing enchantress living in exile at the far corners of the world. He had a pretty princess to wed, and a kingdom to run, and to dally with a lonely sorceress in a lonely circle of trees was not ideal.

And so he left. He straddled his horse, leaving behind him a woman with lines on her face and white gems in her hair.

She ran after him, skirts flying, but he never looked back. She ran, till the trees tore her flowing gown. She ran, till the blood ran from the cuts raked across her grief-stained face. She ran, till the dark fell and she turned to shambles upon the silent, hard ground, still as stone, forsaken and unloved in the entire world.

When she returned again to her palace, she robed herself in black. There she abode, steaming potions and chanting spells that caused black snakes to well up around her palace. From then on, she became a legend, a monster which ensnared living men in its webs in a lonely corner of the world. From that moment, she was no longer human; she was a missionary of the devil on earth.

* * *

Lulu Bell begins her life as a Noah with gusto. She willingly carries out her Master's orders, and to her, there is no greater pleasure than wrecking havoc on the lives of men. _Who are men,_ she thinks, _to destroy the world so? They are the cause of their own misery._

She delights, now, in uprooting order. There are nights, still, when the wind blows cold across her room, when she longs again for those bygone days of simple joy and human happiness. But now, her choice has been made, and she will stick with her kindred through thick and thin. There is no greater pleasure, she deems, than destroying those of _his_ kindred. To destroy those who hold such power in their puny hands, but who do not seem to have the wisdom to use their power.

They are infinitely weak, just as she is infinitely strong in her abilities.

The need for love, though, burns deep in her breast, and nothing can ease that painful ache. Every night, she cuddles up and clenches herself into a tiny bundle, but to little avail.

When Tyki comes along, she glances sideways, eyelashes curling over her eyes. Tyki is not immune to her charms.

One day, they kiss, allowing themselves to give vent to their basest desires. But more often than not, the sharp tang of betrayal reminds her to stay clear of him.

 _Trust no man,_ she tells herself, _for they are all cruel._

 _But Tyki is a Noah_ , a little voice tells her.

 _Tyki is a man,_ she tells herself. _I have no need of men._

Night after night, thus, she warms herself by her hearth, thinking of nothing but the man who left her, of his warm eyes, his strong embrace, his loving lips that opened so wide to whisper sweet nothings into her hair. On nights like these she longs to cross the hall and enter Tyki's room and seek comfort in his arms, but always she hesitates at the threshold of his room.

She does not blame fate, for this is the life she has chosen.

She can only wield her powers and aid her beloved Earl, and wait for the sure (but slow) and painful demise of Man. She hopes for this, as she struggles to sit upright beside her wayward fire, as she struggles to force out the chill in her joints.

But when she sleeps, all she dreams of is a man riding away from her, all dark hair and black velvet, and a cage closing in on her. 

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on FFN in Dec 2010. Inspired by the DGM fic elfenmarchen by SebonzaMitsuki27 over on FFN.


End file.
